


Forlorn

by ThirstyForRed



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Reverse Chronology, icebrood, tyriaslibrary halloween prompt 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-02 10:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirstyForRed/pseuds/ThirstyForRed
Summary: Adjectiveforlornabandoned, deserted, left behindmiserable, as when lonely after being abandoned (synonym: forsaken)unlikely to succeed; hopeless





	1. Body Horror

It starts like this: you scratch your shoulder. The skin under your fingertips has a bit weird texture and is more tender than you would like. And cold. But that far to the north in the Shiverpeaks state of your complexion is the last thing on a list of your worries. And it's not that weird to get minor frostbite, even if one would expect to lose their toes first.

So you don't think much about it and are hopefull it's nothing too serious. That once you get back to civilization and peal of all your clothes, it'll turn out to be just a patch of dry skin that gave you small fright during this long journey.

You  _ don't _ think about it.

But you and your companions are still traveling north and you're getting sick of everchanging dancing colors of auroras and jerky, and you think you may actually lose left small toe. Those in your group that knows heating spells or have some equipment are doing their best, despite your snares. Despite that, it's more likely that you all will perish before reaching the destination, that blizzard might kill you even before you get to see just a shadow of the dragon. That maybe you would be faster without all those people raised in south and sun, slowing you down. 

In the end, you're the norn, only now you're starting to get frostbites.

You were all so hopefull at the start of this mission. No one would count their chickens, but there was at least excitement of beginning a new adventure. Now, you think, it would be a miracle to even get back home. To bring back whats remains of those who already fell. To wolfs, to wurms, to cold, to icebrood. Those who turned to ice.

(So far only one of Priory researchers that insisted to accompany your group.)

It's another evening (or morning, or middle of the day, it's hard to tell when there's no sun at all) when for the first time in weeks you think about it again. You scratch your shoulder and you think you broke the skin. You bring back your hand and see no red as you would expect, or yellowish pus oozing from the wound. No, the liquid on your fingers is deep blue in color and smells of iron and forlorn.

You  _ don’t _ taste it. No matter, how much you want to know what is it.

At first, you ignore it. Again. As if this time it would actually bring you any good. And because you say nothing, no one asks, not even when your eyes change color to icy blue. Which, actually, brings out another matter - no one of your trusted companions looks directly at you. Not in the eyes. Always somewhere near enough, like shoulder or ear, or they stopped to bother with looking at you at all. 

You wonder if that means that they no longer trust you.

And you're not afraid, not really. Again, everyone knew that the chances of coming back were slim at best. So you start this weird routine, every night before sleep, when you're alone in your tent, you move your fingers along the spine to feel out where the skin broke or is just breaking. And one night you feel something different. Something that you hope is not  _ a bone _. You stopped differentiating warm and cold, so you can't even check the temperature of this thing. You might wait for protrusions to be long enough to grasp, snap off and look at them closely.

It takes another few weeks and you're not even surprised to see it's just an icicle.

It's kind of funny, knowing that not so long ago you would freak out seeing icicle growing from your body, made of a thing that is not your blood. You wish you could tell your companions about it and laugh together. But these days you're completely alone.


	2. Nightmares

You have this… nightmare.

At first, it seems to be like any other dream, you often dream about snow and Hoelbrak, and laugh off your family. But now it’s night and the lodge is empty. The hearths have gone cold and the wind howls through destroyed walls so loud you think you might go deaf. No one answers your call. You shape-shift, but even leopards nose cant senses in the air anything other than ash and forlorn.

And then, there’s that darkness, impenetrable, descending and trapping you between its claws.

The deepest voice address you._ “Champion.”_

Both in the dream and the waking world you know it’s not a lie - you are the champion. It’s your title, the one you fought for with the other dragons, gods…

You hear their voice in your dreams, clearer than crystal, clearer than spring water, and they call you the champion. So at first, you’re not alarmed. But you should be.

More nights filled with nightmares pass and they address you as the Commander - also true to the core. “Champion” has a different ring to it, ancient beings might find it threatening. _“If the Champion was might enough to vanquish other of my kin, why then would my fate be so different?”_

But “commander”? It only means that while they’re indeed an ancient being, they didn’t just dream for millennia. They studied the hearts and minds of those living in Tyria and now they know that “the Commander” is just another name for a mortal.

A mortal leading army of other fools against impossible. _“Consider this, my Commander: you cannot stop being older than Time itself. Not when you do not know if it was indeed born to this world.”_

You tell your friends everything about it. About the ash mixing with snow, and specters with familiar faces, and claws that every time rip you apart and you can’t stop screaming. About how on numerous times you woke up in bed wet from your sweat, blood and other evidence of terror.

And they, your friends, your companions, are so good and loving. They offer warm hugs and vigil over your dreams, and somehow it helps. You plan and discuss and strategize. And even when you wake up from the nightmares, in darkness and cold, you’re not afraid. There’re other warm bodies beside you, people that will shush your screams.

You do not fear the darkness. You have your keen eyes and fire and the moon, and you were once called “the Lightbringer”. Creatures of darkness should be afraid of you.

You do not fear cold. You were born to the north and your blood is hot and red. In your nightmares, you saw it steaming on white snow.

You do not fear death. And they, the Voice in your head, knows about it, so you’re scared of all the other things they might know from your dreams and memories.

And the nightmares become more and more obscure. The lodge turns to smoke, the sky, and blizzard, and claws disappear - all that’s left is you and the Voice.

_“Slayer!” _they snarl._ “Slayer of what? Shadow so long neglected it perished from starvation? A tangled mess of weak character and twisted mind? The wrath that fell to his own blood? Yes, indeed, you are a slayer. The Slayer of weaklings.”_

_“You wish to fight me, thinking I am the one that craves the blood of Tyria. But you need not fear me, my Hero. For I desire unity.”_

You wake up, drenched in sweat, with voice strained from screaming, clawing at anyone that tries to help you. And they ask, keep asking what you saw, what you heard, and you can’t utter a word.

Because now in your dreams they call you by a new name. _“Mine”_


	3. Phobias

It's the last day before you set off to the north, one of the early and warm days of fall, and you're sitting in a patch of light, like a cat, drinking from a flask, trying to forget about your worries. Only for a few minutes. It should be so easy, there are flowers all over the Grothmar Valley. It's almost like the first day of spring.

You could be sitting in the pub with the rest, eating, joking and getting totally hammered for the last time. But sometimes you like being alone.

Not completely, you still hear cubs playing on the farm and legionaries bickering over something mundane. So technically? You're not alone.

Two things you are known for that have nothing to do with your fighting skills - how well you can hold your liquor and all the great jokes you know.

(The first one you prove right now by drinking absinthe straight out that flask. No, you definitely shouldn't, but that's the Ascalon way. Smelling like wormwood and forlorn.)

And there's that one joke, a great joke, that you heard once in Elona and absolutely loath. It's not nasty or disrespectful - actually, it might be the most kid-friendly joke you know. But you hate it anyway because it hits too near home to your liking. It goes like this:

_ "There're three men living on a deserted island, they have been there for months. They're starving, desperate and afraid. One day, while scavenging the shore, they find the magic lamp. They touch it and right in front of them appears djinn, and he says "Ah, you freed me from my binds, for which I am eternally grateful. To prove it, each one of you may now ask me for one thing and I will grant you your wishes." _

_ "The first man wishes to go home to his family, so djinn clasps his hands and man disappears. The second man wishes to go home to his wife, so djinn goes “Poof!” and the man teleports away. The third man looks around, at the deserted shore of forgotten island and back at djinn, and finally, he says. He says: _

_ “I do not want to be alone. I wish my friends were back here.” _

There're so many stages of what constitutes as "alone". You wish to never be so bored and isolated that you would start actually thinking about the definition.

It's too philosophical for you - norn don't deal with philosophy. Yes, you all talk with Spirits of the Wild and run to shamans with every simple problem, but no norn asks themselves "What exactly am I afraid of?"

Not of bears - you're hardly a norn if you didn't beat one of them with your bare hands. But fear is not bad, shamas always say that. Fear is a natural reaction of body and mind, and overcoming it is the core of survival. We were afraid of the darkness and cold, so we learned to make fire. We were afraid of the Mist, so we learned how to enter it. We were afraid of the Elder Dragon, so we... Well, you're still working on that one, but at least someone already took their tooth.

That's the Norn way - surviving no matter what. Surviving, but never being alone, not really. Humans or Asura might be arrogant enough to think they can overcome everything like it's a solo mission, but Norn? Norn have clans, families, and lodges in Hoelbrak - norn are together, knowing the power of unity.

So that's it, that’s the reason why you're lying in flowers on a meadow in Ascalon, drinking alone. You get what the third guy from that joke was thinking. It's less painful to die with your friends at your side, even if the price is that you, personally, doom them to death.


	4. Trick or Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the light one ;)

"Lemmie just set up the recording and we can start..."

"So? What exactly are we writing here? Like an interview or article, or something?"

"Just a short article about your plans for Halloween. But I want to try this new recording crystal in case this is the day I finally make you spill the beans. "

"You're not my therapist..."

[barelly audible] "Thanks the Six, I'm not. [normal volume] Halloween! Do you celebrate it and if yes, how? What are your Halloween traditions?"

"Well, I celebrate it, but I think it's more a krytan tradition."

"I see... Oswald Thorn is a figure from human history, but he also every year invades the Lion's Arch. Wouldn't you say that it's more like we all have to deal with him?"

"Yeah, I guess. It's just that growing up in Ascalon, ghosts kind of lost their novelty on me."

"Wait, aren't you a norn?..."

"It's kind of a stupid question."

"I'm sorry, it's just..."

"Nah, it's ok. I was born in Hoelbrak, but my parents were trades so we moved around a lot. Mostly in Ascalon, you know trading back and forth with the charr."

"I see... We will have to set up another meeting for that story. Back to Halloween, now... So, you don't feel any kind of thrill when the Mad Realm mixes with our old Tyria, that's it?"

"Not really. You know, adult life is already so goddamn weird. The powerful spirit of a guy wearing a pumpkin on his head decides to invade us for 3 weeks just to tell his lame jokes? This might as well just happen. But I try to have some good time anyway. Eat an unholy amount of sweets and beating the Mad King in "Mad Kings Says"."

"So, in the end, you do celebrate like any other tyrian."

[laugh] "Yeah, I think we all, all citizens of Tyria, now need some kind of therapy. Shit goes weird all the time and we're like "Oh, it's just Tuesday".”

"Do you also wear costumes?"

"Of course, dressing up is so much fun! Last year I did the Lunatic Court with my friends, but for this year I'm still not set on a single idea. I heard that Palawa Joko is getting popular."

"Sexy Joko?"

"Is there any other Joko than Sluty Joko? [laugh] No, that would be in bad taste. And also I don't want to be killed on the spot if Mad King sees me."

"Oh, so the gossips are true? They hate each other?"

"Ooh, don't even get me started... There's this whole mascarade going on to keep any news that we defeated Joko, from Thorn's ears. If he ever hears about his beloved archnemesis being actually dead, he would invade us for real. [beat] Could you not print this part? I'm too young to be beheaded."

"Of course. You say you have some other ideas for a costume, care to share? Is it Bloody Prince Thorn?"

"The twinkiest twink? Nah, I was actually thinking about Mr. Gum Drops."

"Pardon, who?"

"Gum Drops. Mad King Thorn's invisible pet pony. [beat] Don't look at me like that, half of Lion's Arch will be mummies or skeletons or other shit. I'm trying to be innovative."

"Commander. If you wish to dress up as an invisible horse..."

"Pony..."

"Pony... so be it, but with all due respect: that's the worst idea I have ever heard. And remember I heard a lot of your bad ideas."

"I could make it sexy, you know."

"Invisible pony? I truly doubt."

"You're the worst interviewer, you know it?"

"And yet, I'm the only one that manages to turn your rambling into readable content."

[muttering] "And what you're dressing up as this year? Steve the labyrinths nightmare?"

"No, my fiance and I are doing Tequatl the Sunless, he will move front legs and head, and I take care of the back and wings."

"Nerds..."

"Well... You said that Mr. Pony was only one of your ideas. What was the other?"

"Bria the Ascalonian necromancer. She lures, kills and then eats cubs in the Iron Marches."

[barely audible] "That's fucking obscure. [normal volume] Very in your style. Anyway, I think that's enough for today, it supposed to be only a short piece. Editors need extra space from this year's reprint of Mad King's story. You want to see next week, to start on that "Norn in the Ascalon" story? Though I have a feeling it will be more than a single article."

"No, tomorrow we're set to Gorthmar Valley, and then to beat the shit out of Jormag. I'll send you a word once we get back. Bye!"

"Of course, see ya! [long beat] Wait, did she say "Jormag"?"


End file.
